


Dead Set

by PatInTheHat



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Canon-Appropriate Pining, EXTREMELY TEMPORARY character death, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mild Blood, mild horror elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatInTheHat/pseuds/PatInTheHat
Summary: In which Jeeves, tasked with reaping the soul of one Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, makes a series of ill-advised decisions and Bertie, oblivious, accidentally acquires a valet with a strange night job.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	Dead Set

**Author's Note:**

> Note that Jeeves is not THE reaper, but A reaper. This fic is based on a discussion from the Drones Club discord so sadieb798 and VTsuion, this one's for you.

At exactly 11:41 PM on November 14th, one Reginald Jeeves manifested next to the prone corpse of a young man. Something bright and blue floated above the man’s chest, tethered to his body by thin, glowing tendrils, its light catching on the edges of a growing pool of blood beneath his head.

Jeeves pulled a pair of shears from his pocket and crouched next to the body. Normally, he did his reaping quickly and clinically, severing the soul without sparing a glance for the shell it had belonged to. Today, however, he paused. In about forty seconds, he would regret this decision immensely. 

The man was young enough that Jeeves knew his death would be considered untimely. He had a soft, open face that remained approachable and friendly even in death, and his slim build made him appear fragile. A traitorous corner of Jeeves’ mind immediately wanted to protect him. He squashed it. The man was already dead, after all. Jeeves reached forward, preparing to cut the tendrils between soul and body, but he had already hesitated too long. The glowing strings suddenly tightened, pulling the soul back until it vanished into the man’s chest, which shuddered in a gasping breath. His eyelids, formerly at half mast, twitched and flew open, pupils dilating, eyes focusing on Jeeves’ own. 

“Good morning,” said the corpse, “You must be the chap from the agency.”

Had Jeeves not been a consummate professional, he would have cursed. 

\---

Page 12 of the Reaper’s Handbook notes that speed is essential to a job well done. “When collecting a soul,” it states, “One must sever the connection as quickly as possible to avoid reanimation. The soul may rest outside the body for anywhere from one to three minutes before being reabsorbed, so it is best to err on the side of caution and cut its connection immediately. The results of a botched reaping can be disastrous (see page 23 for protocol regarding accidental reanimation).” 

\---

The dead man’s name was Wooster, and he seemed remarkably unconcerned about the stranger looming over him with a pair of scissors in hand. He also seemed to think Jeeves was some kind of valet--not an unreasonable assumption, he supposed. “Valet” was far more believable than “grim spectre of death.” No matter, Jeeves thought. It would buy him time to fix this monumental mess.

“Dashed strange first impression this must make,” Wooster said, wincing as he sat up. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head, and the fingers came away bloody. “Last I remember, I was changing a light bulb.” 

An overturned chair and shattered light bulb on the floor beside him corroborated his story. Jeeves glared at them. 

Wooster had staggered upright and was leaning against a countertop. Between his disoriented expression and the blood-matted hair on the back of his head, he looked downright pathetic. Jeeves felt a stab of pity. Had he not bungled this job, Wooster’s soul would already be safely tucked away, spared this pain and indignity. It seemed unfair that he should still have to die on top of it all.

“You know, I heard somewhere that head wounds bleed a lot,” Wooster mused from the counter, inspecting his bloodied fingers, “But it’s entirely different to see it for yourself.” 

“Indeed, sir.” Again, the guilt speared his chest. 

“Say,” Wooster exclaimed, “I forgot to ask your name! Terribly sorry, the old bean was never quite in working order even before I bashed it open.” 

“Jeeves, sir.”

“Jeeves,” Wooster repeated. A smile, small but warm, spread across his face, and in that moment Jeeves made a deeply unprofessional decision. Despite the panic still roiling in his gut, despite the Handbook, despite the consequences, he would make sure this one lived. 

\---

The Reaper’s Handbook states that, in the event of an accidental reanimation, the mark should be gently, but firmly, informed of their death. Disbelief is to be expected. Physical evidence of their demise may come in handy while breaking the news. The Handbook continues:

“The deceased, body and all, should be transported back to intake, where you must inform your supervisor of the incident. The soul will then be manually separated from its body by a technician. You may be asked to fill out an incident form. Under no circumstances should the reanimated mark be left at the scene--without intervention, the body will eventually separate from the soul on its own, leaving it to wander the living world. Loose souls often become indiscriminately violent and should only be dealt with by an experienced reaper (see “Hauntings,” page 68).”

\---

So Jeeves hatched a plan. 

If memory served, a reanimated body could hold onto its soul for about a month before it separated on its own. He would need to reset the connection between the two before that happened. Fortunately, Jeeves knew where the kits to do so were kept.  _ Un _ fortunately, he also knew they were strictly off-limits. He sighed and glanced at his newfound employer.

Wooster was draped across a couch, trying valiantly to balance a stack of books on his forehead. Initially, he’d wanted to read one, but Jeeves had dissuaded him. 

“If you have a concussion, sir, reading would not be advisable.” 

“Oh, alright,” Wooster had grumbled. The man seemed incapable of sitting still. He’d bounced his knee, tapped his fingers, paced the room until a bout of dizziness sent him back to the couch, and finally devised this book-balancing game. There were four on his head now. He added a fifth, and the pile tumbled to the floor. 

Jeeves returned to scheming. The custodians were his best bet. Many of them had access to the equipment rooms, if only for cleaning, and they were the most bribable of the staff. Farnum, he recalled, had a particular soft spot for liquor, and a bottle or two could probably buy his cooperation. 

He set his plan in motion that night, materializing in the Department of Life and Death’s lobby one hour after he was sure Wooster was asleep. After wandering the second floor, he found Farnum mopping a dimly lit hallway, the periodic wet slap of mop on linoleum echoing in the empty space. 

“I’d like to offer you a trade,” said Jeeves. 

“Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Farnum leaned against the mop, gnarled hands tightening on its handle. “You reapers, always flitting about, puts a man on edge.”

“I walked here.”

“Did you?” Farnum grinned. His teeth were large and yellowed, and one got the distinct impression that he had too many of them. “Didn’t hear you coming.”

“A trade,” Jeeves repeated, fishing the bottle from his pocket, “I need access to the equipment room.” 

Farnum’s eyes lit up. One of them twitched as he considered the offer, the iris appearing to flicker. 

“Going rogue, Reggie?” His grin widened, splitting the waxy white flesh of his face. Jeeves gritted his teeth. “I didn’t think you were the type.” 

“Will you do it or not?”

“For the liquor?” Farnum cocked his head, the motion stilted, “I’ll let you in, sure. But I’ll need something else if you want me to keep my mouth shut.”

“And what might that be?” Jeeves clenched his fist around the shears in his pocket. 

“Bring me outside with you.” 

“No.” 

“Oh, come on!” Farnum wheedled, “I only want a couple hours. Do you have any idea how  _ boring  _ it is in here?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I promise I’m not gonna eat anybody,” Farnum molded his face into an exaggerated pout, “That’s what got me stuck here in the first place.” 

Jeeves frowned, but said nothing. Farnum filled the silence. 

“Do you want my help or not? We both know you can’t get into equipment storage by yourself.” Farnum was pointing at him. Jeeves hadn’t seen him move--one moment he was leaning back on the mop, the next his hand was extended. “I’m your best shot.” 

Jeeves considered the uncanny little man in front of him. Farnum looked weak and folded-over, and Jeeves had the clear size advantage if it came to taking the keys by force. But looks could be deceiving with custodial staff. Even if he managed to steal the keys, Farnum could always sell him out to a supervisor. And if Jeeves’ plan failed… 

The image of Wooster smiling at him, of his face furrowed in concentration while he stacked books on his head, of his fingers tapping out a silent melody on his knee, popped unbidden into Jeeves’ mind.

“Fine,” he said.

“Really?” Farnum looked elated, his body perking upright with a disquieting series of pops and crunches. 

“One hour,” Jeeves said, “and I want the keys first.” 

“Deal.” In one sweeping motion, Farnum dropped the keyring into Jeeves’ open palm and snatched the bottle from his other hand. Jeeves sighed, pulled the shears from his pocket, and began to wedge open the cuff around Farnum’s wrist. 

\---

The Handbook mentions custodians exactly once. 

“While humanoid in appearance, the Department of Life and Death’s custodial staff are not, in fact, human, do not originate from the world of the living, and do not abide by a human code of ethics. The custodians you encounter here are typically working a punitive position for crimes committed in the living realm. Exercise caution when interacting with them.

Under no circumstances should a custodian’s tracking cuff be removed.” 

\---

All things considered, the custodian’s outing could have been worse. The streets were mostly empty, given the hour, and Farnum seemed content to wander like an aimless tourist. Jeeves only had to step in once when another man walked by and Farnum’s gaze lingered, hungry, for a moment longer than necessary. He clamped a warning hand on Farnum’s shoulder, stifling a shudder when his fingers sank into the flesh where there should have been bone. 

“What, I’m just looking!” Farnum protested. Jeeves gave no reply, but tightened his grip. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Farnum piped up again. “So equipment storage, eh? What exactly are you hoping to find in there?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for thinking it unwise to give you any details,” Jeeves said, voice cold.

“Trying to make a run for it? No, that’s too obvious. But maybe you’re one of those thrill-seekers hoping to snatch a haunting case from under the Department’s nose. Or maybe,” Farnum continued, a sneer stretching his face, “You’re helping someone cheat death. What a scandal! What’d the lucky bastard have to do to win  _ you  _ over?” 

“I think,” said Jeeves, “Your hour has reached its end.” 

Their walk back was (blessedly, Jeeves thought) devoid of conversation. Back at the Department, he retrieved the cuff from the corner where he’d stashed it and fastened it to Farnum’s wrist before unlocking the door and returning the keys. Farnum jingled them as a farewell. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he called over his shoulder. His uneven footsteps faded into the far end of the hallway. 

The equipment storage room was a bleak stone affair, narrow and lined with shelves. In the dim lighting, Jeeves could make out several stacks of Reaper’s Handbooks, a row of flasks, and neatly stacked shears identical to the ones in his pocket. He inspected one of the flasks. Its dark metal was featureless, the distinction between flask and cap almost imperceptible. Despite its plain appearance, he recognized it instantly. The way the liquid inside had burned his throat was a sensation he doubted he would forget, and it featured heavily in his dreams on the rare occasions he chose to sleep. He slipped it into his pocket, where it clinked against his shears. 

The hallway outside was quiet, but Jeeves guided the door closed slowly, flinching at the click of its mechanisms sliding back into place. For safety’s sake, it was best nobody even saw him on the same floor as equipment storage. Walking as quickly as he could without attracting attention, he made his way back to the lobby. An elaborate clock above the entrance informed him in gilded numbers that it was 3:02 am. He weighed his options. Picking up a reaping shift could help establish an alibi, but if Wooster was awake when he returned to the flat, it might open a line of questioning for which he was unprepared. He pressed his lips together, thinking. He could probably knock out two or three jobs and get the souls through intake without much risk. He’d certainly learned his lesson about working quickly. 

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Jeeves returned to the flat shortly before 6:00 am, a handful more reapings under his belt and the ill-gotten flask burning a hole in his pocket. Wooster, meanwhile, stumbled back to consciousness just past 11:00 and immediately threw a pillow over his head. 

“I don’t see why the sun needs to be so bally bright,” he groused, muffled, “I feel like someone’s trying to escape my skull from the inside.” 

“Perhaps this will help, sir?” In the early hours of the morning, Jeeves had poured the flask’s contents into a glass, which he pressed into Wooster’s hand. The liquid, a violent green, tossed bright fractals on the wall where the light passed through it. Wooster downed it without opening his eyes. Immediately, he convulsed, and Jeeves felt a twinge on his behalf. He remembered the way his throat had burned, how it felt as if all his organs had become molten liquid in his chest, how every muscle in his body had seized with excruciating pain. 

Wooster placed the glass on his side table, hand shaking. Tremors notwithstanding, the dark circles that had sat under his eyes since his death faded away, the sickly hue to his skin following suit. He brought an incredulous hand to the back of his head.

“Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?” 

“That was an incredible magic trick you just performed,” Wooster said, voice as shaky as his hands, “But I think I’d like to avoid a repeat performance.” 

Later, when he played the scene over in his head, Jeeves would deny it, but his mouth twitched in a brief smile. 

\---

The Reaper’s Handbook stresses the importance of professionalism throughout its text. “As a reaper,” it states, “you embody the time-honored human tradition of dying and represent the very institution of life and death. This is not to be taken lightly.” 

The Handbook discourages flagrant displays of emotionalism, flamboyant reaping attire, conversational speech with a mark, and vigilante justice. 

“It is not your business who was responsible for a violent death,” the Handbook notes, “only your responsibility to collect the soul. Death is an unbiased affair.” 

Entering a mark’s employ, becoming attached to them, and feeling personally gratified by their recovery are not mentioned explicitly in the Handbook’s text. That said, a consummate professional knows where the line is drawn, and it is decidedly before that professional starts looking forward to his mark’s piano performances. 


End file.
